


At the End of This Day

by killabeez



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Castiel and Netflix, Castiel in the Bunker, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Episode: s11e06 Our Little World, First Kiss, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 21:22:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5221262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tag to 11x06, in which Sam finds unexpected comfort close to home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the End of This Day

**Author's Note:**

> _O my God, at the end of this day I thank You most heartily for all the graces I have received from You. I am sorry that I have not made a better use of them. I am sorry for all the sins I have committed against You. Forgive me, O my God, and graciously protect me this night._

"Sam?"

Sam woke with a gasp, heart racing. It wasn't the first time that had happened in the last few weeks, though it was the first time he'd done so with his cheek pressed to his laptop keyboard and a weight resting on his shoulder. Fight-or-flight tensed in his stomach, but something about that touch calmed the response before it could fully take hold—which was fortunate, as he would have been sorry to have thrown a punch at Cas's face, even if his hand would have paid the price.

"Apologies. I didn't mean to startle you."

"No, that's—" Sam sat up, wiping the back of one hand across his mouth, then raking his fingers through his hair. Cas's touch fell away. "Thanks. I didn't mean to fall asleep." He glanced at his watch. "Wow. Is it really that late?"

"I think you mean early," Cas said.

Sam glanced over his shoulder. The table lamp was the only light on in the library, and beyond the door, the war room was empty, dark save for the glow of the instrument panels. "Did Dean—?" He broke off, unsure of what he wanted to ask, or whether he really wanted an answer. After the events of the past year, he kept waking up half expecting to find Dean gone.

"Asleep. Or, perhaps more accurately, unconscious."

Sam nodded, swallowing. Though he'd kept his head down, burying himself conspicuously in his work, he'd been all too aware of Dean fifty feet away, drinking his way steadily through their whiskey stash with a dedication above and beyond his usual level of self-medication. Stupid, to think that with the Mark removed, maybe they could get back to some semblance of normal. That maybe all the lines he'd crossed, the secrets he'd kept, the price Charlie and the whole world had paid, would win his brother some measure of peace and space to breathe.

"I didn't think you'd still be here," he said before he could think. Cas hadn't stuck around long after Sam had left the room, and Sam had sort of assumed he'd flown off to his own devices.

But then Cas said, "Where would I go?" and Sam looked up, feeling like a world-class jerk. 

"Right," Sam said hastily. "No, I didn't mean—" The look on Cas's face made his heart hurt with recognition. Anything had to be better than watching the Winchesters wallow in their own failures while trying to pretend they had the first clue what they were doing—except, apparently, if you were Castiel, who had burned every bridge and lost every friend he had, no different than Sam and Dean. 

Sam tried to make up for his thoughtlessness by saying, "You know you can always stay here if you want to. You do know that, right?"

Cas's expression didn't change by much, but Sam could tell he understood. "Thank you. You have been very generous with your Netflix, Sam."

Sam smiled in spite of himself. "Exactly. My Netflix is your Netflix." He closed his laptop and stood up, making an effort to stack the papers spread around it into some kind of order.

Cas, though, didn't move. "Sam, are you all right?" he asked, his voice low with concern. "You don't look well."

Sam froze. He drew a deep breath and let it out on a huffed laugh. "Yeah, I'm fine, Cas. Tomorrow's a whole new day, right?" He went back to straightening the papers, not meeting his friend's eyes. 

"It is tomorrow," Cas said. "Or will be soon enough."

Sam leaned onto his hands and nodded. "Yeah." He straightened up, and tried for a light tone. "Guess I better get some sleep then, huh?"

Cas regarded him steadily. "Sleep wouldn't hurt," he agreed. He seemed like he wanted to say something else, but Sam sidestepped it by clapping a hand on his shoulder and giving it a brief squeeze.

"Okay, then. Night, Cas." He started toward the door, then hesitated for a second. "I'm glad you're back. And for what it's worth, I get why you let Metatron go."

After a moment, Cas said, "Thank you, Sam. Your kindness toward me is...more than I deserve."

And Sam was really very tired, and not up for heart-to-hearts tonight, not even with Cas—not when the visions he'd been having (and whatever was going on with Dean) had him scared beyond his ability to put any of it into words. But after all they'd been through, all that Cas had sacrificed for them, he couldn't let that stand. He closed his eyes for a second, then turned around.

"Don't say that. Okay? I mean it. It's not about that. Not between me and Dean, and not between you and me. You're family. You always will be. The rest of it is just—the three of us muddling through whatever we have to." The look in Cas's eyes made him laugh, self-conscious. "And if you ever tell Dean this conversation happened, I'll deny it, so just... don't, okay?"

Cas's lips quirked upward. "I won't."

"And quit thanking me, okay? I'm just—telling it like it is."

Cas's gaze was steady, and very, very blue. "As you wish."

Sam's cheeks warmed. The odds that Cas's binge-watching had included _The Princess Bride_ were vanishingly small, but the movie had been too deeply embedded in Sam's childhood psyche for him not to make the connection. And if he thought Dean would roll his eyes at Sam's earnest three A.M. chick flick moments, what would he say if he could see them now? He'd be calling Sam "Buttercup" for the rest of eternity.

"Okay," he said hastily. "Good. So—yeah. Night." 

“Good night, Sam.”

He meant to turn around then, to go to his room and fall face-first onto his bed. It had been a stupidly long day, and tomorrow wasn't likely to be much better. But something in Cas's manner stopped him. The way he stood there in the lamp light, shoulders slightly bowed, echoed Sam’s own loneliness and weariness and uncertainty so profoundly that his chest ached with a sudden, soft recognition he couldn't deny. 

"Hey, listen," he heard himself saying before he could think better of it. "Do you want to maybe watch something with me?"

Cas blinked. "I thought you needed sleep."

"I do. But it's been—the TV would probably help." His voice sounded funny. What was he doing? "It's okay if you don't want to, I just figured—"

"Yes. I would like that."

Sam swallowed whatever else he'd been planning to say. Warmth bloomed in his chest. And belatedly, it occurred to him that he’d just invited Cas into his bedroom at three in the morning, and that if Dean found out, any explanation he might offer would sound as ridiculous as he felt right now.

Okay, then.

* * *

There were times—a lot of times, if Sam were honest—that he wished he could rewind his life fifteen minutes (or fifteen years) and call a do-over. The awkward moment when he stood in the doorway to his room and ushered Castiel in ahead of him was one of those, because even if he weren’t already in over his head, the sight of his rumpled sheets brought the realization abruptly home that not only had Cas been hanging out in his room for the last ten days, he’d been hanging out in Sam’s _bed._

Sam felt the heat in his face—and elsewhere—as he bent down to unlace his boots. Thankfully, Cas was as oblivious as always to certain socially proscribed implications, and sat down in the single chair without asking, the remote already in his hand.

“What would you like to watch?” he asked.

“Anything that doesn’t involve ghosts, monsters, angels, or demons. No offense.” 

“None taken. That eliminates a surprising number of programs.” Cas loosened his tie and flipped through the options with practiced ease. “Here’s one. _Madam Secretary._ The reviews are excellent. Have you seen it?”

“Nope. Sounds good.”

Sam shed his overshirt, but left his jeans on. Stretching out on the bed, he made himself as comfortable as he could, trying very hard not to think about the Supernatural book series and teenage girls making up names for and fantasizing about the potential intimate relationships between himself and Dean and Cas. _Samstiel_ —had he really said that out loud? Maybe by saying it, he'd planted the idea in his own mind. Or something. Ever since Piper, he’d had sex on the brain, but the last thing he needed was to fixate on Cas, of all people. 

As the show began, Sam surreptitiously studied the angel beside him. Sometimes, Castiel was as alien to Sam as the memory of his mom: astonishing, but impossible to get his head around. And then sometimes, like now, Sam thought that no one in all of Creation could understand what he'd been through except maybe for Cas. That feeling always scared the hell out of him, because it was so crazy, it couldn't be real. He'd always pushed it away as fast as he could, telling himself it was ridiculous, laughing at himself for the sheer idiocy of the thought before it could take hold.

This was nice, though, he had to admit. He’d barely turned on the television for months, barely even made it to his room most nights, unwilling to give up a moment that could be better spent studying the Mark and trying to figure out a way to save Dean from turning into something worse than a demon. All in all, Cas looked more at home in Sam's room than Sam felt himself.

Then memory caught him off guard—the last time he’d done something like this, it had been with Dean and Charlie, more than two years ago. Sam let out an involuntary breath, emotion twisting in his gut. Cas, hearing it, glanced over and caught Sam looking at him. He frowned in concern. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Sam’s chest hitched, but he covered it by clearing his throat. “Sorry, nothing.” He shifted and thumped a fist against his chest. “Just a tickle in my throat.”

Cas regarded him for a long moment, but Sam kept his eyes on the screen and pretended not to notice. He set his jaw and bit down on the tip of his tongue, willing away the urge to tear up. With everything they’d had to deal with, he hadn’t thought about Charlie in more than a week. And thinking of Charlie made him think about Kevin, and about Dean, who was free of the Mark but still so distant, still keeping things from him. Dean, who hadn’t trusted him in a long, long time, and probably never would—with good reason. Sam swallowed. _Nobody else,_ he thought fiercely, not for the first time. _Nobody else dies because of me._

Cas hit pause on the remote, and the TV fell silent. “Something’s wrong,” he said. “Is it this show? We can watch something else.”

Sam huffed a laugh and rubbed a hand against the back of his neck. “It’s not the show, Cas. It’s nothing, I told you. Maybe I’m coming down with something.”

Cas reached over and laid a hand against Sam’s forehead. The touch was so unexpected and so gentle, Sam closed his eyes and swallowed. His breath hitched.

“You don’t have a fever,” Cas said. He pulled his hand back.

Sam shook his head. He didn’t trust himself to speak right then. His heart was beating too fast, and he thought he might be in trouble, because all he wanted was for Cas to touch him again. What was wrong with him?

“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” Sam managed at last. “I’m not very good company tonight.”

“You are always good company,” Cas said. “I find your presence comforting.”

Sudden warmth bloomed in Sam's chest. He looked up. “Thanks. That’s—that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in a while.”

“You’re welcome.” Cas studied him by the glow of the TV. "Sam, can I ask you something?" 

"What's that?"

"What did Dean mean? About God?"

Crap. Figured Cas would have picked up on that. Sam tried his best to look clueless. "God? What d'you mean?"

"He said, 'I don't suppose _God's_ decided to share any wisdom on the matter.' What did he mean by that?"

"Oh. He was just, I don't know, being Dean. You know how he feels about God."

"I do. And I can’t blame him. But he seemed to be implying something specific."

Sam shrugged, pretending to study the frozen image on the TV. "Who knows what's going on in his head these days?"

"Mm," Cas said, though he sounded dubious.

It was on the tip of Sam's tongue to ask, _Do you think something's wrong with him?_ Part of him desperately wanted to ask. But a bigger part was desperately afraid to hear the answer. Was this how Dean felt, all those years when there was one thing after another wrong with Sam? His visions, their dad's warning, the demon blood, the soulless months, the hallucinations of Lucifer, the Trials. The Mark of Cain was nothing compared to all that. No wonder Dean couldn't trust him. And would they ever be whole again? He loved Dean more than air, but he didn't begin to know how they would ever get past all the shit they'd been through together.

"Cas, do me a favor?" Sam asked.

"Of course."

"Keep an eye on him for me? I'm just—I'm worried about him."

"I will," said Cas. "Always."

"Thanks."

Then Cas leaned closer, almost touching his shoulder to Sam’s. "As I will keep an eye on you, Sam. Always. As long as it is in my power to do so."

Sam blushed; he couldn’t help it. Crap, he really was in trouble. "Thanks, Cas." He swallowed. "I appreciate it, more than I can say."

"Don't thank me. My reasons are entirely selfish."

"Cas?" Sam sat up straighter, and turned so that he was half-facing Castiel, one elbow propped up on the pillow. 

"Yes?"

Sam’s heart was pounding again, but the early hours of the morning made him brave. "Will you—can I kiss you? I know it's weird, but—"

Castiel’s eyes widened, and his lips parted. But he hesitated only a moment. "Yes, Sam. Nothing would make me happier."

Weird didn’t begin to cover it, but Sam didn’t let that stop him. He deliberately put thoughts of Dean out of his head as he leaned in. Cas didn’t tense, just waited, watching as Sam closed the distance between them. He still had his coat on, and he smelled faintly of rain. When their lips met, Sam tasted salt.

Sam closed his eyes. He pressed his mouth to Castiel’s, daring the smallest taste with the tip of his tongue. He half expected to be struck by lightning or something equally dramatic. But Cas was warm, his mouth yielding, his skin smooth. He kissed back only slightly, as if waiting to see what Sam would do.

Sam pulled back and met his eyes. His pulse had slowed; a feeling of calm came over him, as though he’d found the sudden quiet in the center of a storm.

“Okay, maybe not that weird,” he admitted, feeling a little breathless—mostly at his own audacity. Or maybe insanity would be a better word. “You?”

Cas seemed to be staring at his mouth. "Weird is not the word I would use. Admittedly, my experience with kissing is not what you’d call extensive."

Sam let out a soft laugh, then drew a deep breath and did his best to get a hold of himself. “What word would you use?”

Castiel considered. “Intriguing,” he said at last.

“Intriguing. I can live with that.” Sam pushed himself up and swung one leg over the edge of the bed, the linoleum cool against his bare toes. He studied Cas’s face, trying to read what he was thinking. It didn’t look like pity, but sometimes with Cas it was hard to tell. “Intriguing enough to want to do it again?”

“Now?”

Sam smiled. Cas sounded hopeful, which was gratifying. “If you want, sure.”

Cas stood. His gaze remained on Sam’s face as he took off his coat, then his tie. Sam’s heart sped up watching him, realizing this was for real. He swung his other foot to the floor and Cas came to stand closer, between his spread thighs. Sam looked up at him, swallowing. 

Castiel followed the motion of Sam’s throat with his eyes, then reached out to stroke the side of Sam’s neck with one hand. His thumb paused over Sam’s pulse point, a warm, faint pressure. Their eyes met. “May I?” Cas asked, low.

Sam gave a small nod. His heart was pounding again, worse than the first time. They were really doing this.

Cas bent down, and Sam closed his eyes. He felt Cas’s fingers slide into his hair, cradling his head, and he had to bite back an involuntary sound. Then Cas kissed him.

It wasn’t like being kissed by Piper, or anyone else Sam had ever kissed. Sam would have been hard-pressed to explain how it was different, but the word that surfaced was _blessed._ At the same time, it was very real, very human, a simple gesture of comfort and tenderness between friends tentatively becoming more. Sam’s awareness of Castiel’s power was both scary and arousing, but superseding all of that was the feeling of trust that welled up strong in his chest. Sudden heat prickled behind his eyelids, and he reached up to Cas’s waist without realizing it to fist a hand in his shirt. He broke the kiss with a soft gasp.

“Sam?”

“Yeah.” Sam kept his eyes down, reluctant to let Cas see how affected he was—but Cas crouched down to see his face. 

“Perhaps this was a mistake,” Cas said. “We’ll stop.”

Sam shook his head. “It’s not that. I swear.” He gave a small, watery laugh. “The opposite.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Cas. Nothing’s wrong, I just—it’s been a long time since I was with someone I cared about. Even longer since I—“ _felt safe with anyone,_ the sentence finished in his head. But he didn’t dare say that out loud. Safe didn’t exist. Believing otherwise would get you killed, or worse. If anyone knew that, it was him.

Cas’s hand was resting on his knee. Sam took it, turning it over in his own. Jimmy Novak’s hands were surprisingly beautiful—soft and expressive, like something out of a classical painting. But it would be a mistake to forget himself, no matter how badly he needed something good right now. “Listen,” he said, “maybe you’re right. Maybe we should sleep on it. Give it some thought, before we do something we might regret."

“As you wish,” said Cas.

Sam smiled despite himself and met Cas’s gaze for a second. “You gotta quit saying that. At least, don’t let Dean hear you say it.”

Cas’s brow furrowed. “Are you concerned about what Dean will say if he learns we have shared intercourse?”

“God, please don’t let him hear you say that, either.” He squeezed Cas’s hand. “No. That’s not it. I mean, yeah, I’m not in a hurry to break the news to him, but I just—I think we should take it slow. Is that okay?”

“Of course. We can take it at any speed you wish.”

Gratitude and relief spread through Sam’s body. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.” Cas rose smoothly. “The last thing I want is to hurt you in any way. I hope you know that.”

Sam looked up at him, feeling too many emotions to put into words. It suddenly hit him how exhausted he was. “Yeah, I do. Same here.”

“I should go,” Cas said, reading him easily. “You need sleep. We’ll talk later.”

But Sam closed his hand tighter, slipping his fingers between Cas’s. “Cas, will you—will you stay with me? I do need to sleep, but I don’t want you to go.”

Castiel’s expression softened. He studied Sam for a long moment, and Sam wished he knew what Cas was thinking. Then Cas nodded. “Move over,” he said.

Sam did as he was told.

“Under the covers,” Cas added, his gruff order reminding Sam of his big brother, what seemed like an eternity ago. Both warmth and grief twisted inside him, for the present and for the past. But then Cas was toeing off his shoes and sliding under the covers with him, and a wave of tired affection washed some of the sadness away. It intensified when Cas turned the TV back on, then pulled Sam against him until he was settled with his head on Cas’s arm and Cas spooned against him, guarding his back.

Cas said, close to his ear, “I must admit, this is very pleasant. Much better than binge-watching by myself."

Sam smiled and closed his eyes. “So with you on that, you have no idea.” He sank toward sleep, into the warm, solid comfort of being held and protected. A few tears might have slipped past his guard, but he was too tired and too comfortable to care. “Hey, Cas?”

“What, Sam?”

“Do you still hear me? When I pray?”

Cas hesitated, and Sam felt the rise and fall of his chest against Sam’s back, the beat of his heart. Sam had seen him bleed, and cry, and all the messy things that humans did. He knew Cas didn’t need his human vessel to breathe, but maybe he knew Sam needed it right now. Or maybe Cas needed it, for reasons Sam might never entirely understand.

“I hear you, Sam. I hope I always will.”

Sam nodded. “I hope so, too,” he confessed. “It’s good knowing someone’s listening.”

Sleep came, then, and the last thing he knew was the gentle touch of Cas’s fingers in his hair.


End file.
